


Hope Of A Forsaken Man

by Belle82DevArt



Category: Far Cry 5
Genre: Drinking, Nightmares, Other, PTSD, torture references
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-01
Updated: 2020-07-01
Packaged: 2021-03-04 19:20:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 999
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25021558
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Belle82DevArt/pseuds/Belle82DevArt
Summary: Staci Pratt begins to experience another episode of PTSD induced from his time in Jacob Seed’s cage. memories resurface, pain is felt, but what will be the resolve Pratt faces? Only you can find out.
Relationships: Staci Pratt/Jacob Seed
Comments: 2
Kudos: 11
Collections: Far Cry Fanzine 2020





	Hope Of A Forsaken Man

**Author's Note:**

> This was my contribution to the 2020 Far Cry 5 Fanzine. I highly encourage you all to go follow the artist I worked with as well as check out the rest of the art and stories from the fanzine itself. Below I will have the fanzine tagged. Art by the amazing: @dadtron-3000 on Tumblr. Thank you so much for being my partner in this and working so well with me, even if my idea was a bit delayed!

**“It becomes difficult to deal with everyday life because you have hid your soul in a dark corner so it doesn’t have to face the dangerous world of the Trauma. Without your soul, you are only half a person, a machine who is constantly running from reality.” - Amy Oestreicher**

The clouds rolled in above the metal ceiling of a newly improvised cage, rumbling with the deadly winds and shaking the world about. Montana storms could be some of the worst to sleep during, some of the worst to escape from. He takes a deep breath as he lays in bed, listening to the pistoning of rain hammering the metal roof above, how the soft drip of water from a spot that leaked near the window fell into a waiting dish, half full already from the torment of the storm outside. Each sound had its own little reverberance, own little sounding off point, and it made his body toss and turn underneath the thin sheet he insisted upon when he first had a place to call home. At least, what could have been deemed a home. The lightest flinch followed when the window creaked and the room around him settled along with the touch strain of wind, watching the world around him shatter, even if the storm was supposedly supposed to be brief that night. 

The man could only recall back to his time behind metal bars, how the wind and rain hammered him, drenched him, and covered him in the mud from beneath. He could remember how the ground and bars faintly shook with each deep rumble of thunder above. The storms went on for days in those mountains, cutting off all the sudden then starting back up just when you thought they would be over. The world above was going to hell, and back then he never imagined escape. He never imagined leaving the confines of the red headed captor that held him there, bound by chain and sizzle of defiance. He hated that man, even when he showed what was a mock of sympathy. 

_ "Still got some fight in those eyes, Peaches. A few more days will do you well. Strengthen you up. You want to be strong,  _ **_don't you_ ** _? Strong enough to leave your bonds?" _

Battered, broken, starved, and diminished. All the other could do was nod along in a feeble gesture of loyalty. This  _ 'loyalty' _ , built on the backbone of the blood, piss, and sweat of the others that had been just as unfortunate as him to sit on the muddy ground beneath him, was all he had as his sign of hope. He thinks back to it now, as the storm rages on outside with his back pressed onto a filthy mattress and pillow wrapped around his ears, how wrong he had been at the time to think that loyalty would have gotten him anywhere. He lets out a broken sob when the walls around him shake, shaking limbs curling into a fetal position as best as they can while being tangled in the mess of the thin fabric around him. Some would think after months of being away, he would have a way to cope… But there truly was no way. 

His hand is shuffling for the bottle beneath the bed, sweat slickened hair stuck to his forehead from the Montana heat slipping and falling before his face, letting the light droplets cascade down until they meet the amber bottle that holds only God knows what sort of cheap liquor. He had taken to spending his nights like this. Anxious, mind riddled with memories, and drinking away his sorrows until he was finally asleep. Just like  _ him _ .  _ He  _ who locked him away.  _ He _ who ruined what sense of sanity Pratt had held onto like a lifeline while in his company.  _ He  _ who still haunts his dreams, speaking to him within his mind until he's passed out and waiting for the next day to begin. 

The cap is unscrewed and thrown aside, mind-set already on finishing the contents of the bottle despite the amount left behind from the last go-round. His lips, chapped and trembling slip around the opening and the burn of whiskey stains his throat. He coughs, sputters, and feels the liquid run down his chin, dripping down onto a bare chest that heaved with each anxious breath. 

_ "Whiskey,  _ **_a mans drink_ ** _. Supposed to burn your throat and make ya strong. That's what my old man used to say before he'd take one down the hatch… Drink up, Peaches." _

That voice that haunts him so, making him recall the first drink they shared, the first drink excluding what rainwater he could collect in his cupped hands. He takes another harsh swig of the bottle, growing accustomed to the sting and warming of his throat and belly knowing by the end of the bottle he'll be sleeping fine. But fine wasn't a word he'd use often. Fine was just the dull buzz in his head and numbness in his being. Fine was the days he spent flinching at gunshots and turning around at the faintest of voices that sounded like his captors own, as if he was taunting him from the grave. Fine was not fine, and in Staci Pratt's mind, fine would never be truly fine. 

The bottle rolled across the worn wooden floor, stopping against the dressers edge with the quiet slosh of a few sips that just couldn't be finished. He lays with fluttering vision to the ceiling, the rain beginning to fall into a dull Drum and lessen to a familiar song. 

_ "A man clings to the bottle like it's his only lifeline.  _ **_What do you cling to_ ** _?" _

His voice sounds distant to Pratt, even as he begins to drift, even as his heart slows and his body lulls into the heavy slumber just outside the reaches of death. There was one thing Jacob  **_fucking_ ** Seed could never take away from him,  _ just one thing _ he couldn't own. 

" **Hope** ."


End file.
